


Tired of Waiting for You

by achray



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Season 3 Spoilers, post The Empty Hearse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-05
Updated: 2014-01-05
Packaged: 2018-01-07 12:17:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1119741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/achray/pseuds/achray
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock decides to stop waiting. John isn't happy. Sherlock/Anderson (implied), Sherlock/John, suggestions of Sherlock/John/Mary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tired of Waiting for You

**Author's Note:**

> Produced in some kind of demented frenzy with no beta'ing or rereading, embraces every cliche with open arms. Written after 'The Empty Hearse' and before watching 'The Sign of Three'. There may come a time when I'm tired of writing jealous John, but clearly that hasn't happened yet.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” said John, hesitating on the doorstep of 221. “You know, it’ll probably be a disaster. We could go back to ours, order takeout, watch Jools Holland…”

Mary smiled at him, indulgent and slightly exasperated. “We’re here now,” she pointed out. “We accepted the invite. Come on, it’s New Year’s Eve, you have to see the new year in with friends. It’ll be fun.”

“Right,” said John, with only a minimum of sarcasm, but Mary still shot him a look. It was at least the tenth time they’d had this conversation since accepting Sherlock’s invitation – which he’d sent to _Mary_ , not to John, though Mary swore the text had mentioned John specifically – to a New Year’s Eve party at Baker St. John had vivid memories of the last time he and Sherlock had hosted a drinks party in the flat, and absolutely zero wish to revisit the horrors of that evening. Plus things were still a little awkward with him and Sherlock, and he was trying to avoid the Sherlock-and-Mary combination as much as he could. He sent up a quick prayer for an uneventful and passable evening, took out his key – he’d been meaning to return it for weeks, he didn’t know why he still had it – and let them in.

They were greeted at the door by Anderson – Anderson! – who had shaved off the dodgy beard John had last seen him with and gone back to his old style. Classical music and a hum of talk emerged from the living room.

“John, Mary!” he said. John frowned at him. “Can I take your coats?”

“Lovely to see you, er, Philip, isn’t it?” said Mary, pecking him on the cheek. “Let me just – “ She took off various scarves, gloves, her coat and her jumper, with Anderson assisting officiously. He was behaving in an oddly at-home way, John thought. Where were Mrs Hudson and Sherlock?

“Sherlock,” Anderson called over his shoulder as he retreated with the coats. “John and Mary are here.”

Sherlock emerged from the living-room, smiling warmly. John preferred it, these days, if Sherlock wasn’t smiling at him: smiling was not to be trusted. But Mary was smiling back, and reaching up to kiss him on the cheek.

“Thanks for coming,” said Sherlock, apparently sincerely. He glanced at John as well, including him. John folded his arms.

“And how are you?” said Mary. “How’s it going?” There was an undercurrent of meaning in her words.

“Well, thanks,” said Sherlock. He looked around and John followed his gaze to Anderson, emerging from Sherlock’s bedroom.

“Took your advice,” said Sherlock to Mary, in an undertone, as Anderson reached them. He slid a hand round Sherlock’s waist and Sherlock – John waited for him to punch Anderson, or maybe John should just do it on Sherlock’s behalf – but instead Sherlock _smiled down at him_ and ruffled his hair. Anderson gazed up at him with a truly horrific look of adoration.

“Philip’s done most of the cooking, of course,” Sherlock said.

“I’m sure it’ll be lovely,” said Mary.

“Speaking of which, I’d better check on the canapés,” said Anderson apologetically, disentangled himself from Sherlock, and wandered off.

“Well,” said Sherlock, rubbing his hands together, and either failing to notice or deliberately ignoring John’s complete stupefaction. “You can find yourselves a drink, I’m sure. I promised to play some tunes, may as well get it over with before dinner.” He swept off.

“What the _fuck_ was that?” said John, hand on Mary’s arm, following her in Sherlock’s wake.

“What?” said Mary.

“ _Sherlock_. Sherlock and – and that tosser. They’re not… _are_ they? What did he mean, ‘thanks for the advice’?”

“Oh, he asked me what to do about Philip. I told him he should go for it, of course.”

“’Go for it?’ Go for _what_? When was this?”

“Calm down,” said Mary. She snagged a couple of glasses from a side-table and looked around for some wine. John saw Greg waving at him from the sofa, where he was trapped between Molly and Tom, and lifted a hand in return.

“I am calm,” he said. “Just – are you saying that Sherlock – _Sherlock_ – is shagging Anderson?”

“Looks a bit more serious than that, wouldn’t you say?” Mary lifted a bottle of red from the mantelpiece, checked it, poured a large glass, and passed it to John.

“Sherlock _hates_ Anderson. And he doesn’t have sex. I mean, he doesn’t have sex with anyone, ever. He’s – I don’t know – he’s just not interested.”

Mary pursed her mouth and raised her eyebrows at him.

“Seriously,” John insisted. “He’s never _had_ a relationship.”

Mary sighed. “He has now,” she said. “People change, John. Maybe he was lonely. And Philip seems nice – he’s the one that set up that fan group, isn’t he? Tracked Sherlock’s movements across Europe? He went to a lot of effort to prove that Sherlock was still alive, and I expect Sherlock appreciated it.”

John swallowed. “That was because…”

“Oh, sorry, love, I wasn’t implying….Look, I know you’re his best friend but you’ve moved on, no reason why he shouldn’t do the same. God knows he could do with a shag.” She grinned and leant forward to speak into John’s ear. “Doesn’t he look more relaxed?”

John winced. “I really don’t want to think about it.”

“Sorry,” said Mary, unrepentant. “Anyway, Sherlock was texting me about it, umm, maybe two weeks ago or so, and he asked me what I thought. Not really surprising he didn’t tell you, is it, when you obviously hate his boyfriend.”

“His – “ John took a very large drink of wine, and stared across the room at Sherlock, who was fending off Mrs Hudson while rosining his bow. _Did_ he seem more relaxed? Oh God, maybe he did.

Mary patted his arm. “Don’t panic,” she said. She sounded as if she were trying not to laugh. “I don’t think Philip’ll be helping him with cases. Just be nice for the evening. Go and rescue your friend Greg, and I’ll help out in the kitchen.”

John looked at her. She was beautiful, and funny, and smart, and all his friends liked her, and she was his. He let out a breath. “OK,” he said. “I promise to behave,” and he kissed her, half-hoping, as he did, that Sherlock would see.     

**

The party had been going on for another hour before John had a chance to corner Sherlock, who had mostly been playing a series of Christmas classics that John had had no idea he knew. The others were clustered round the kitchen table, helping themselves to food and congratulating Anderson – Philip, bloody hell, John was never going to get used to this. He was acting as if he _lived_ in Baker St. Oh, Christ, maybe he did.

Sherlock was sitting in his chair, fiddling with the violin strings. A lock of hair had fallen across his brow, and he looked, as usual, as if he were posing for a men’s magazine. A _gay_ men’s magazine, John thought with an irrational surge of annoyance.

He went over and planted himself in front of the fire. Sherlock looked up at him and quirked an eyebrow.

“So…” said John. He took a sip of his wine, self-conscious. “You and – “ he nodded towards Anderson.

“Mmm,” said Sherlock, drawing it out.

John took a deep breath. “How long have you been…together?”

Sherlock’s mouth twisted at the corner, amused. “A couple of weeks.”

John had been going to ask if it were serious, but he abruptly lost his patience. There was no chance he was going to stand here making polite small talk about Sherlock and fucking Anderson.

“You think he’s a wanker and an idiot. That’s the polite version of what you used to say about him. And now he’s your _boyfriend_? You didn’t even tell me you were gay.”

“I’ve never noticed that someone’s intelligence had a direct correlation to how good they were in bed,” Sherlock said. “And as for the other, I dislike labels. But yes, I prefer men. I assumed you’d come to that conclusion for yourself a long time ago.”

“You’ve never…”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and strummed a mocking chord. “I haven’t conducted an extensive investigation. But I’m not sworn to celibacy.” He shrugged, looking up at John with clear eyes. “If you’re asking my _intentions_ , I thought I would have some fun. That’s what normal people do, isn’t it? Besides, my mother thinks he’s delightful, and Mycroft loathes him.”

“You introduced him to your _mother_? He was only divorced a year ago. He’s not even…”

“Oh yes he is,” said Sherlock softly. “There are some things you can’t offer me, John. I don’t see that as reason not to take them from others.” He met John’s eyes, challenging, and John looked away first. He caught Mary’s eye across the room, and she signaled to him to join her. Sherlock was looking at the fire, a small mocking smile on his face. Or perhaps it was the firelight, John couldn’t tell.

“I hope you’re very happy together,” he said, with no sincerity at all, and walked away.

***

After that, John thought it best to pretend the whole Anderson situation didn’t exist, and since Sherlock, on the occasions they met for case-related business, never mentioned him, this was pretty easy to do. Besides, he had more important things to think about. Like flower arrangements, cake, seating plans, order of service, hymns, travel arrangements, honeymoon, bridesmaid dresses….

The day after the wedding, he woke up to bright morning sunshine in the luxurious hotel bed, and slowly savoured the idea that he would never, ever, have to plan a wedding again. It was done. Thank God. He’d actually done it. And it had all been… fine. Better than fine, in fact. Of his two main worries, Harry hadn’t been carted off the dance floor in a coma, and Sherlock had behaved impeccably. His speech had been pretty damn good. John had almost felt proud of him, of his posh enunciation and the cheekbones that had most of the guests staring at him in awe. John’s speech had been pitiful in comparison, but then all he’d really had to do was say that Mary looked beautiful, which was no problem, thank everyone, and not cry. He stretched. They’d fallen into bed late last night. He hoped no-one expected them to get up and entertain the guests who had stayed the night. He rolled over and dropped a kiss on Mary’s shoulder, sliding a hand down to her waist, and she made a pleased, half-asleep noise.

Then her phone beeped. She groaned, and reached for it, pushing hair out of her eyes, pushing buttons. John watched her scan the message.

“Ha!” she said. “I _knew_ it.”

“What?” said John, through a yawn.

“ ‘Just leaving Sherlock’s room. Best shag ever. Got his number? xx Ted’” she read. “Oh, and he’s put three smiley faces at the end too.”

John woke up abruptly. “Ted?” he said.

“Come on, John. Ted, my cousin? My favourite cousin? The very gay one, with the brown hair. And the sequins. You’ve met him, like, ten times.” She started texting back, rapidly.

“Oh, that Ted. Wait, he pulled _Sherlock_?”

“Mmm-hmm,” said Mary. “Didn’t you see them on the dancefloor? The whole room went up three degrees. I’m texting Sherlock about whether I should pass on his number, but do you think it’ll wake him up?”

John racked his brain. It was true he’d had a lot of champagne, but he felt sure that he would have remembered seeing Sherlock dancing to the 80s playlist that Mary had lovingly created.

“But Sherlock’s with Ander – Phillip.”

Mary sighed with exasperation. “I’m going to send it anyway, I don’t want to leave Ted in suspense. No, they broke up a month ago. Doesn’t Sherlock tell you _anything_? You must have noticed he didn’t bring anyone yesterday, because we had to rearrange the whole plan for the top table when they split up.”

“I don’t ask him about his…about that kind of stuff. How do _you_ know?”

Mary’s phone beeped again. “That’s Sherlock,” she said. “Look.” She passed it over.

“Hear you’re the best shag ever. T wants your number. Don’t screw over my baby cousin. ;)”

“True. Can’t promise anything. Got his while he was sleeping. – SH”

“God, he’s arrogant,” said Mary, fondly. “And I know because we, you know, chat about it. Like when he came to that fitting with me and then we went to pick the suits, while you were at work. He said he didn’t think things were going to work out with Philip then, he was too adoring or something and it was making Sherlock uncomfortable.”  

John lay back and frowned at the ceiling. He knew Sherlock and Mary texted each other and that they’d done some wedding stuff once or twice, so he shouldn’t be feeling obscurely betrayed by this. Also Sherlock had been having sex in the same hotel as them. He was fairly sure he shouldn’t be finding this fact as disturbing as he was. It was good that Anderson was out of the picture, he supposed.

“Come on,” said Mary, rolling over to lie on his chest, coaxing. “It’s not a proper wedding unless the best man has sex with someone inappropriate, and Ted was practically one of the bridesmaids.”

“Hmm,” said John. He gave himself a mental shake. He was in bed with his wife, his gorgeous wife, and he was definitely not going to think about Sherlock. He could not have cared less. He kissed Mary’s hair, and let his hands start to roam.

“Turn your phone off,” he said, and he felt Mary’s smile curving against him.

***

When John asked Sherlock casually if he’d enjoyed the wedding, Sherlock said that parts of it had been excellent, and then he smirked and winked. After that, John let it lie. He heard from Mary, who seemed to have taken to meeting Sherlock for lunch in the pub on her day off, if he was bored and between cases, that Sherlock and Ted were seeing each other “casually”, whatever the hell that meant. 

A month or so passed, and then one night John and Mary ended up in the pub with a few friends and relations. Including Ted and his new boyfriend, who was possibly called something like Chris, or Colin, John hadn’t caught the name. He wasn’t going to ask what had happened with Sherlock, not even of Mary afterwards. But he assumed it was all off. Ted was fun, John liked him, and he liked his boyfriend too, who was clearly a million times better for him than Sherlock could possibly have been.

An hour or so passed, a couple of pints, and then the door of the pub opened and Sherlock strode in and straight over to them. Christ, this could be awkward. Had Mary invited him?

“Hi,” said Mary, grinning up at Sherlock. “Glad you could make it.”

Sherlock looked dissatisfied. He inclined his head to John, taking off his coat in a needlessly showy way, and ruffling his hair.

“Love that shirt,” said Ted, cheerfully. John relaxed a fraction. He was about to offer to move up and let Sherlock in next to him and Mary, but Ted was already standing up and fetching a chair from the next table. Sherlock sat down beside him, leaning back and crossing his legs, and Ted put a possessive hand on his thigh. John felt his eyebrows raise and converted the expression into one of reproof, directed at Sherlock. Chris – Colin – was _right there_. Poor bloke. He didn’t look bothered, but perhaps he hadn’t noticed – though it would be hard not to, given that Ted was leaning across to chat to him while practically caressing Sherlock’s inner thigh, in a seriously creepy way. 

John drained his pint.

“My round, isn’t it?” he said to no-one in particular. “Same again, everyone? Sherlock, can you give me a hand with the drinks?”

Sherlock shot him a look of amused suspicion, and seemed about to refuse, but John gave him his best glare. Sherlock raised his eyes to the heavens, extracted himself, and followed him.

They waited at the crowded bar for the drinks to be poured.

“Ted’s Mary’s cousin. Her _favourite_ cousin,” said John, meaningfully, watching the barman rather than Sherlock.

“You don’t say.”

“And C- his boyfriend seems like a nice guy.”

“Delightful.”

John turned to him, exasperated. “Stop dicking around, Sherlock. You know what I mean. Someone’s going to get hurt and it’s not going to be you, is it? You think you can just swan in and mess up someone’s relationship…” He paused for breath, suddenly conscious that he was a great deal angrier than he perhaps had any right to be.

Sherlock’s expression was unreadable.

“Watch and learn,” he said, and he swung away from the bar and back to the table. He paused by Chris or whoever, bent down to say something into his ear, and then cupped his face, leant in and kissed him, thoroughly and with obvious familiarity. Ted slid towards them, and when Sherlock broke off, he tugged at Sherlock’s shoulder, turned him round, and then briefly snogged him. Everyone at the table was watching. So were most of the other people in the bar. Ted pulled away, his face bright and flushed, looking embarrassed but delighted with himself. Then Sherlock stood up fluidly, said something to him John couldn’t hear from his distance, and Ted and Chris were standing up, helping Sherlock into his coat and finding their own, there was a flurry of what seemed to be laughing apologies – John could see Mary pretending to shield her eyes and giggling – and then the three of them left together, no distance between them, Sherlock in the middle. He didn’t even turn around to look at John.

The pub door closed behind them. The hum of conversation mounted again: the whole scene had taken less than three minutes, if that. John’s heart was racing, and he was aware that he was gripping the edge of the bar; he had to force his hands to unclench. What the fuck had that been? He turned to the bar, so that no-one at the table could see him, and tried to compose himself. But he was still simmering when he returned to the table with the round, passing out drinks, smiling mechanically.

He sat down beside Mary.

“You missed the show,” she said to him, gesturing to the empty space across the table.

“Saw enough. Is that seriously – Sherlock and _both_ of them?”

“Apparently,” said Mary. “Lucky for some.”

John shook his head. He’d never – _he’d_ never had a threesome, and God knows he’d slept with plenty of women back in the day.

“Are you OK?”  said Mary. “Sherlock wasn’t winding you up? I saw you talking to him.”

“I’m fine,” said John. “Great.” And Mary looked concerned, but she didn’t call him on it.

***

John woke up that night, and the next, thinking not of Sherlock’s mouth on a strange man, of Sherlock spread out between two men, of what they might be doing, but of Ted and his boyfriend and Sherlock walking out of that horrible pub together easily, as a unit. He was aware that he wasn’t OK about it, about _any of it_ ,  that he was on a very short fuse and it was getting shorter. But it was a week before the explosion came. Mary was sitting on the sofa while he cleaned up in the kitchen, and her phone kept chiming; she’d look at the message, grin, and text back. Once she laughed out loud.

“Who’s that?” said John. He strove to keep his tone light.

“Oh, just Sherlock,” said Mary. “He’s in a gay bar, and he’s texting me deductions and photos of everyone trying to pick him up, it’s brilliant. D’you want to see?” She waved the phone at John.

“No, God. What’s he doing? Is he  - on a case?”

Mary gave him a look that suggested he was being particularly obtuse, irritatingly reminiscent of Sherlock’s standard expression around John.

“What do you think he’s doing? Looking for someone, I imagine. Though if his standards are this high he’s in the wrong bar.” She tapped the phone against her teeth. “I’ve run out of people to set him up with. Not that he seems to be into the idea of relationships at the moment.”

That was it. John couldn’t stop himself. “You shouldn’t encourage him like this,” he said. “He’s not…he’s not a safe person for people to be involved with, he’s not – he’s not…”

“ _Encourage_ him?” said Mary, twisting round to look at him. “He’s not fourteen, John. If he wants to go out and shag the whole of London, it’s not my business to stop him. And why shouldn’t he? From what I can tell, everyone involved is enjoying themselves.”

“Because he’s a psychopath!” said John, almost shouting. “You don’t know him. People will get hurt.”

“I know he hurt you – “ began Mary.

“That’s not what I’m saying, “said John. “That’s got fuck-all to do with this.”

“Oh, really?” Mary sounded dangerous. They weren’t a couple who had a lot of rows, but there’d been a fair few around the wedding, and he recognized the warning signs. He welcomed them.

“How is this any of your business?” she said. “You’ve got this, this obsession with who Sherlock’s sleeping with – do you ever ask yourself why that is, John? Because I haven’t said anything, I’ve just been ignoring how upsetting you’ve obviously found it that Sherlock’s having sex with men, but I’d really like to know just what it is that you find so weird about your _friend_ getting involved with other people.”

“Because he is my friend, and I – ” John couldn’t find what he wanted to say, or shout, partly because what he wanted to say was that Mary had no fucking right to steal his friend from him, to laugh at Sherlock’s texts and share jokes with him and take the fucking moral high ground about his love life –

“Sherlock thinks you’re homophobic, and you know what? This conversation is really not helping with that.”

“ _Sherlock thinks_ – That’s rich, that’s really fucking rich. Homophobic? My _sister’s_ gay, or had the pair of you forgotten that in your little conversations about me – ”

“What, the sister you never contact, don’t get on with, and that I had to talk you into inviting to your own wedding? Come off it, John. How many other gay men are you friends with? You don’t like it that Sherlock has a sex life, it’s hardly surprising he’d think…”

“So he said this, did he? He actually said – ”

“He _said_ that every time someone used to assume you two were a couple, you’d start shouting that you weren’t gay – that’s all he would say about it, though frankly it must have been a bit bloody humiliating for him if you were banging on about your heterosexuality like he was about to jump you – ”

“That’s it,” said John. “This is – we are not talking about this.  I – ” He took a deep breath. There were spots of colour on Mary’s cheeks, she looked furious, and he was – Shit. This was Mary, what was he doing.

“Look,” he said, trying to calm himself down. “I don’t want to say something I’ll regret. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have brought it up, let’s just – forget about this. I’m going to bed.”

Mary frowned at him, then her expression softened a bit. “John,” she said. “OK, I’m sorry for shouting, but don’t you think we maybe ought to talk about this? I mean, it’s obviously a big deal for you – “

“No. I mean, not now. I’m sorry, I’m just – I’m going to bed, alright?”

Mary watched him go. When she came in, some time later, he pretended to be asleep, but he lay awake for a long time, seething.

**

The next day, he left the office at lunchtime without saying anything to Mary, and then he went straight round to Baker St. Mary was his wife, he wasn’t going to hurt her or say anything unforgivable. Sherlock was another matter. He let himself in and then, briefly considering that Sherlock might be out or, worse, have company, banged on the inner flat door.

Sherlock opened it. It was 1pm, but he was still wearing pyjamas and a dressing gown.

“John,” he said. His gaze raked John’s face, and the lines on his forehead deepened.

John pushed past him, into the sitting room. Sherlock followed, wary.

“Did you – ” said John. He stopped and took a breath. “Did you tell Mary that I had a problem with you being gay?”  

Sherlock leant against the desk, a couple of feet from where John was pacing. “Don’t you?” he said, as if with polite interest. “That was certainly the impression I got, yes.”

“That’s not fucking true and you know it.”

“Do I?” said Sherlock. “You’ve made it pretty obvious that you can’t countenance the notion that I fuck men.”

“That was – I was _worried_ , I wasn’t – ”

“You want me for yourself,” said Sherlock. “Except that you don’t want to live with me, or sleep with me, but you still want to have your cake and eat it too, don’t you, John? Or is it that you miss feeling sorry for me, oh, poor Sherlock, no-one would ever desire him, no-one could want a freak like him – ”

“You fucking – ” said John, and then, impelled by instinct, he swung at Sherlock, meaning to punch him, to express whatever it was that he couldn’t express in words. But Sherlock neatly caught his arm, ducked under it, and kissed him, hard, too fast for John to process. Sherlock drew back, eyes narrowed, obviously about to make another snide point, and John crowded forward, desperate to shut him up, and clashed his mouth against Sherlock’s, clumsy and almost painful.

Then Sherlock’s hand came round to cup the back of his head and they were kissing, properly, and John had gone from being desperate to hurt Sherlock to desperate for him so rapidly that he felt stunned: he couldn’t tell if he’d wanted this or not but now he did, he wanted nothing else but to have Sherlock in every way he could, and fuck the consequences. He slid his hands down to cup Sherlock’s arse, to squeeze it, and Sherlock jerked against him.

“John,” he said, drawing back, and then John bit at his collarbone and Sherlock gasped. His hands were on John’s belt, his trousers, undoing them, and John could feel himself getting hard, harder – God, he wanted Sherlock to touch him. Sherlock pushed at his shoulders, and John resisted, not understanding, and then Sherlock made an impatient noise, shoved John’s legs out from under them, and they hit the floor. Sherlock had his hand under John’s head but his breath still felt knocked out of him. And before he could get it back, before he could realize what was happening, his head knocked on the floor and Sherlock had moved down his body. He tugged at John’s trousers and pants just enough to clear things out of way, and then put his mouth on John, and John bucked and swore, hearing himself make an unfamiliar noise. Sherlock’s mouth- he was sucking John as though he too was desperate, and John had nothing to hold on to, he clutched for Sherlock’s head, and said something indeterminate that might have been a warning, and then everything tightened in a rush and he was coming, into Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock dropped his head onto John’s thigh, panting, and John lay and trembled. From the movements of Sherlock’s body, he was touching himself. John’s mouth was dry. He licked his lips and swallowed, trying to form words.

“Can I?” he said, hoarsely, making a vague gesture in Sherlock’s direction.

Sherlock didn’t reply. He grunted and John felt him tense. He felt obscurely regretful not to be able to pay attention to what was happening, but he was still dazed. Sherlock’s breath was damp on his thigh. The floor was cold and there was something sticking into his back. He stared at the familiar and unfamiliar ceiling, and felt bliss receding and guilt creeping in. Oh, fuck. He’d come in here intending to – God knows what he’d been intending but now, in just a few minutes, he’d cheated on Mary, he’d cheated on Mary with a _man_ , with his _friend_ , what was he going to do –

“John,” said Sherlock. John couldn’t bear to look at him.

“It’s not as bad as you’re thinking,” Sherlock said. He sounded remarkably calm, considering.

“Not as bad?” said John. “I’m cheating on my wife, how is that not bad?”

He felt as well as heard Sherlock sigh.

“While I may be reluctant to admit this, Mary is a very intelligent woman. More intelligent than you, anyway. If you think she hasn’t anticipated this, then you’re underestimating her.”

“So you know my wife better than I do,” said John, dully, unable to muster anger.

“In some respects, yes,” said Sherlock. He struggled up, beside John, and loomed over him, so that John was forced to see him. Sherlock looked – almost fond. His hair was tousled, and his lips red. John looked at them instead of meeting his eyes.

“Mary sees the – possibilities,” said Sherlock. “She always has, right from the start. It’s not that I know her, it’s that she knows you. She knows you – better than I did.” His lips twisted into a scowl.

“I have to go,” said John. He didn’t move. Sherlock was bracketing him, he’d have to struggle to get free.

Sherlock sighed again in exasperation. “You’re making this very difficult,” he said. “I want you. She wants you. You want us both, I hope, now you’ve _finally_ managed to stop broadcasting denial at a deafening frequency. If every party consents to the three of us, together, then where’s the problem? Do you want me to draw you a diagram?”

John licked his lips. He didn’t believe Sherlock. And yet, perhaps he did.

“What about you – and her?” he said.

Sherlock looked calculating. “Negotiable.”

“You’re winding me up,” said John, but without any force.

“You don’t have to believe it from me,” said Sherlock. He stood up, and pulled John up after him, letting his fingers slide through John’s and away. John zipped up his trousers, which were less of a mess than they could have been, and his gaze caught on the small strip of skin at Sherlock’s waist, where a button had come loose, which was all he could see. He wanted to see it all. He wanted Sherlock naked. He wanted to take Sherlock to bed again, right now, and repeatedly. He wanted Sherlock never to shag another man again, other than him. He looked up at Sherlock’s eyes, and saw his own desire mirrored there.

“Go now,” said Sherlock, hoarse. “And then come back. I’ll be here.”

John looked at him a last time, nodded, and then left, closing the door quietly behind him.

He opened the door of Mary’s office, carefully. She was at her desk, biting her lip and concentrating on typing. She looked up at the door and smiled at him, affectionate but a little wary.

John shut the door and stood with his back to it, straight. He took a deep breath.

“I had sex with Sherlock,” he said, without looking away from her eyes.

Mary’s eyes widened. Her smile faded a bit, and then her mouth turned up again, into a broad grin.

“ _Finally_ ,” she said.  

 


End file.
